Sins of Our Fathers
by EightDaysSevenNights
Summary: They've inherited wars that aren't their own. As the world falls to chaos, they must make a decision: let their legacies destroy them… or fight to escape their fathers' shadows. Slight AU. Adult.


_"Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you._

_Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you._

_And without feet I can make my way to you,_

_without a mouth I can swear your name._

_Break off my arms, I'll take hold of you_

_with my heart as with a hand._

_Stop my heart, and my brain will start to beat._

_And if you consume my brain with fire,_

_I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood."_

- Rainer Maria Rilke

* * *

I look down. He is kneeling and he guides the black panties up my thighs. The lace itches pleasantly as it travels up the map of my leg. He stands then, his right knee cracking. He tells me to turn.

"Turn," he says. And I do.

"Spread your legs," he says. His voice is low. "Shh... spread... show me." So I do.

He gently tugs the panties up so that the seam slips into my ass and the silk crotch cleaves me. I am on my toes for him, gasping and shaking, my hands gripping the filthy bathroom sink. It hurts and it makes me think of coming again. His thumbs slip under the edges, just beneath the cheeks, and he squeezes.

His hand is in my hair then and I arch my back for him. My body bows - naked chest thrust out, my ass pressed to him where it fits best. I know what he wants.

He is the most dangerous, helpless man I will ever meet.

I have known him for eight days. I have known him my entire life.

I have loved him for eight nights and seven days. I have loved him from the exact moment of my conception.

He pulls my hair with one hand, he feels between my thighs with the other. His cheek is against mine and his face is smooth. He watches me writhe in the dingy mirror and then he tells me what he thinks.

"You're my sweet girl...," he says. My hips buck for him. He continues to pleasure me with his wicked hand. "_Ty si moja slatka devojka..._," he whispers, over and over.

We will never get dressed this way.

I don't care.

My existence was aimless. My life has really only had meaning for the week I have been with him. I am ashamed and I am proud. I wasn't raised to be this woman but this is the only woman I am meant to be.

In only eight nights and seven days, I have become his wife, his sister, his moon.

I am also his protector, his partner, and his whore.

I am in love and it feels like dying.

I close my eyes and decide it's okay to die so long as it's for him.

"_Sweet little girl_," he says against my ear.

He is the sun.

* * *

_Day 1_

I look at him and see only his father. I look at myself and see only my father. But we are not our fathers, though we pay for their sins. The thought makes me sad.

"We aren't like them," I tell him.

He isn't listening, and if he is, he's only hearing the words I speak - not what I say. He stares at the projected image. Sparkling pieces of dust float around in the stream of light. The dumpy little conference room shuts out the day and it feels like a prison cell.

The late Albert Wesker's face is magnified on the far wall. Five feet by five feet. His snake eye is ten inches across.

Jake Muller has his father's profile. I want to remark on it, like a normal person having a normal reaction. But we aren't normal people and what should be a compliment only devastates us. We are the betrayed children.

_Bez roditelja._

He swallows. I watch his Adam's apple jump. He is upset. "Next," he says, and his voice cracks because he cannot get enough of the pain. I know exactly how he feels.

The picture changes with a click of my finger on the trackpad.

It is both of our fathers now. They stand, hamming it up for what was probably my mother's camera. Behind them is a test chamber. Carnage and gore is splattered and wiped on the glass just to my father's left shoulder. He gives a _thumbs-up_ and an exaggerated smile for his audience. Wesker is more reserved - he smirks, his arms crossed. The blood smears frame his slick white hair, giving him an almost albino appearance. Both men are very pale, actually. I can only assume from their time spent under fluorescent lights in the belly of Umbrella. I look carefully, memorizing every detail, though I have seen this picture a thousand times.

They are smiling as someone dies in the background.

My nostrils flare and tickle, and my chin quivers. I narrow my eyes against the tears that will fall if I don't fight. It's like this every time. I bring my fingers to my mouth. I will bite my nails down to the quick to stave off the flow of emotion. I tell myself one day it won't hurt. I tell myself that this pain and anger won't last forever.

I have told myself this for fourteen years.

I bite the corner of one nail, prepared to rip the damn thing from the cuticle if it means I can cry about something other than my parents.

But his hand is over mine and he takes it from my mouth. His fingers are hard and dry with calluses. His skin is warm on mine.

"You're cold," he says.

"I'm always cold." I try to smile.

He holds my hand and we stare into each other. I feel a tear carve down my face. I wear it, like he wears the scar I will ask him about soon.

"We aren't our fathers," he tells me.

I am listening. I hear every word.

* * *

_1st Night_

I'm not cold when I'm under him.

He smells like a leather-bound Bible. He smells like a bonfire and the forests and handfuls of deep winter snow.

He moves like something that crept in from the wild and his mouth is cool like he's come to my bed after drinking from an icy river.

He's a shadow. He's a wolf.

"_Otvori za mene..._ let me in... let me in..." He pleads with me in another tongue for the first time. His breath is on me and every strange word he speaks touches me, until I can feel my skin blush and burn. His nose presses against my cheek and then my jaw and then my throat, nuzzling and breathing me in. He hasn't shaved in two days and two nights and he rubs me raw. He's marking me. _"Molim... molim..."_

We are on our knees in the bed, and I barely remember getting here. I know that his beautiful cold mouth is on mine though, and I know that I am drowning. He holds my face in his hands and bites my lips until I whimper. He begs for whatever I'm willing to give and I struggle to find the space between us.

_What am I doing?_

There is no air left to breathe. There is only him.

His hands never stray from my face, threading in my hair, holding the nape of my neck. He presses against me with everything else that he is... but he doesn't touch me with his hands. I groan and he knows what I feel; he knows what I want and what I need because he's known me for twenty-four hours and he's known me my entire life.

His thumbs stroke my mouth and dip inside, too briefly. He touches my teeth, my tongue, and then wets my lips as he traces them. His skin tastes of salt and rain. I cannot breathe. I am dizzy. He pulls me in to him and his hands are suddenly harder, powerful. He grips my arms tightly. I almost protest.

"I'm gonna tell you what to do... and you're going to do it," he hisses.

I feel light-headed, and I'm afraid of slipping under.

_What am I doing?_

"Get up. Stand there... in front of the mirror. Take off your shirt," he says.

I hesitate but my body moves without my mind's consent. I feel like I'm floating, like I'm standing over the room, watching myself follow directions from a man I don't know, a man I've known since the start of time.

I stand on shaking legs, gulping down the hotel's stale air as deeply as I can. I don't know when I'll next get a breath with him. There's a mirror set up on the ugly post-modern dresser. I wouldn't know what color it is - I don't care. Everything around me blurs. Everything except him.

I stare at myself and bring the hem of the white shirt up - up over my stomach. The dangling star on my belly button ring catches in the fabric and I'm reminded that it's still there. I watch it in the mirror and feel like crying. He's a man and I'm just a stupid little girl with her stupid navel pierced like every other stupid little girl.

He is all male and he was born into his body and his sex; he was born _knowing_. He is watching me in the mirror. He reclines against the pillows, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Go on," he says.

I want this to be over. I pray for this to end.

_Please God, give me strength. Push me through. Please God._

The shirt is up and over my head in a flash of white. And I stand, my eyes welling up with tears, in my plain nude bra. I know that he sees me for who I am now - an impostor, not at all the woman he needs me to be. A woman who wears expensive lingerie he can take off slowly, like unwrapping a gift. Or a woman who wears nothing at all, and is always ready for him.

"Take it off. Slow," he orders. His voice is quiet but his command is firm and loud. He is cunning.

I feel it then - that first awful tear down my cheek. I reach behind my back.

"No. Straps first. Let me see your shoulders," he says from the bed.

I take a shaky breath and push the straps down where they hang, tickling my arms. Another tear falls. I swallow. He watches everything in the mirror. I turn my face away and my shoulders curve. I close my eyes.

"That's beautiful. _Lepa devojčica,_" he tells me. I can feel his eyes touch every part of me - like fingertips on the fiddle of my collar bone, between my breasts, down my arms. He touches me this way and it feels like the real thing. "Take it off," he says.

My heart pounds and the blood rushes so hard to my temples, to my ears, that I'm in pain. It's deafening and I'm not breathing and everything wavers. My fingers somehow find the clasp on my back. I pull and the eye hooks pop open. The only sound in the room is my heart and the rustle of the cheap comforter as he moves. I'm washed in orange from the room's entry light and everything about this feels unreal - like I'm in a pink film, or an erotic thriller, and this scene will end at any second, the camera cutting away demurely as the lights fade to black.

But I'm not a starlet. This is not a movie. This is real.

I slip my arms through the straps - it takes several attempts. I am hot and terrified and I know I should be. My panties stick to me under my jeans, and they're wet and cold. I begin to cry - _truly_ cry. I hold the cups to my chest.

_This is insanity. _

He's an international fugitive. He's wanted by governments and terrorists and scientists who will bleed him dry like they did me. But I've been promised my freedom from the labs and the tests and the prying... if I can just deliver him safely to the United States External Investigations Unit waiting in China.

Instead... I've taken him back to my hotel room on a side street in Edonia. And he's telling me to take off my clothes... and I'm doing it, I'm actually doing it. And he's watching me with his father's eyes; he sees my father's freckles on my shoulders and my chest.

He's on the bed, taking off his boots and then his socks. He's going to fuck me. I'm going to let him. I'm going to like it. He's known me for one day and an eternity and he will know exactly how to make me come.

_What am I doing?_

I let the bra drop to the dresser but keep my hands there. I don't know who I am protecting myself from. I have asked for this. He waits for me. He doesn't push. He is very cunning.

I drop my arms to my sides. My breasts aren't large, but men have always liked them. They're full and high and fit well in any hand. I can't look at them now though and I can't look at him either. I look instead at the wall and breathe through my nose. I want to speak, but I'm afraid of what I'll sound like in the silence. I'm afraid of breaking it and I'm afraid of _not_ breaking it.

"Touch yourself."

My back arches at his words. I have no control. "How?" I ask and my voice is weak, barely my own.

"Show me what you like." He's patient. "Show me how to touch you."

My hands shake as I lift them to my breasts. It's not fair. Without looking at him in the mirror, I say, "You show me first."

"Show you what?" His voice isn't playful.

"How you like to be touched." My boldness is shocking to me.

"You wanna see me rub one out?" I can hear the smile. He looks so much like his father when he grins. I know this but I've only seen it once - he smiled for me, in the conference room that was like a prison cell.

I want to tell him not to laugh at me. I don't though. I just hold my breasts, hide them, and wait.

I am surprised by the sound of something being pulled, the clink of metal, and then the teeth of a zipper, peeling apart. He's in no hurry. In the mirror, I try not to look at him; I can see the shape of him moving, standing and letting his pants drop to his feet, his arms up as he yanks the ragged shirt from his back. He's watching me again - boring in, holding me down and taking me. Preparation for what will happen soon.

"Turn around and look."

I do as I'm told. My eyes, I know, are shy as I glance up at him, and then away.

He's nothing but sinew and muscle strung tight over a frame that's so sharp and cruel it seems inhuman. His chest is broad but thin and his hips are almost painfully narrow; the bones jut like points of ivory and then draw deep cuts between his belly and groin. He balls up his shirt and looks at me.

He licks his lips. He doesn't have his father's miserly mouth; his mouth is full and generous. I want to feel it on me again. I _need_ to feel it on me again. The shirt slips from his hand to the floor.

"This what you wanted?" He asks, his arms out, palms up so that I can see all of him. I can't make myself look lower than his stomach. I know that he's hard and perfect.

"What do you think, princess? Am I pretty enough for you?" His voice is suddenly harsh.

"Don't say that," I whisper. "Don't make it like that."

"Take the rest off," he says. "Now."

I search his face for something to laugh with him about, to let this tension out of the room. But he's serious and I know, with such certainty, that I've never been so terrified in all my years... or so in love. In that moment, everything unravels. Every little plan I had for myself, every little idea I had about life, every little moral I thought I held so dear. All of it just disappears.

I start unbuttoning my jeans. I'm trembling and it's difficult work just to get out of my own clothes. He settles down onto the bed, one hand reaching back to the headboard while the other rubs down his belly, and further still. He licks his lips again, and grinds his teeth together. His hips are rising to meet his own palm. He's touching himself and I'm too afraid to look.

I lean over and pull off my socks, soaked through and freezing from my hike through the parking lot and the dirty slush of the Edonian winter. My feet are pale and cold but I can't feel it - I can't feel anything but the heat in my face. I push the legs of my jeans down my thighs, over my calves, and off, where they lay inside-out on the floor with my shirt.

"Come here." He's breathless. His hand runs up his length, over the tip where his thumb strokes, and down again. Twice more. I see it all without looking at anything but his face. He lets his head loll back. His upper lip curls in pain or pleasure and the terrible, beautiful scar strikes up his cheek like lightning. He watches me so carefully with those defensive eyes - cerulean blue, like his father's before the change. Those eyes warn me. They say he might not stop, he might go too far. All Weskers go too far - a sea of anguish and death in their wake. I know this, my father knew it, the people I love in a world far, far away from here know it too.

Nothing good ever came of an acquaintance, of an association... of a relationship with a Wesker. And the wolf in my bed is without a doubt his father's son.

_I don't care._

I walk to the side of the bed, more aware of my body than I have ever been. I stand within his reach, one arm crossed over my breasts. I shake pitifully.

In a blur I can barely comprehend, he's wrenched me to the bed and he's top on of me and he's breathing against the side of my face. I have no time to scream, no time to move. He's pinned my hands above my head, and he rubs his nose and his mouth and his teeth on my throat again. This time though, he's not pleading sweetly in his favorite tongue; he's grinding his jaw together, he's barely restraining something awful. He fights a war with himself just above me, and I feel more hot tears slip down my face, but I keep still and silent.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he releases my arms. My hands throb back to life but I leave them there above my head, crossed obediently at wrist.

He pulls away from me, looking down, and he runs his warm, dry fingers over lips, over my chin. I close my eyes and sob. His hand finds my throat and he applies enough pressure to make me gasp.

"Look at me," he growls.

My mouth is so dry it hurts, and his cruel fingers tightening around my throat make me ache, and I feel the pounding of my poor heart in my stomach... and lower. I keep my eyes closed and arch my back for him.

"Please." It's a prayer, a petition to whatever human is left in him... to whatever human is left in _me_. "Please."

"Look at me." His voice is soft now.

I blink and my eyelashes flutter against my cheeks - wet and soft and dark. In the orange light, I stare up at him and feel my pulse echoing in my lips. He watches me, and then he asks, "What if I'm just like him?" His eyes are dead when he puts the question to me.

I move towards the wolf who has me pinned beneath his hate and his sadness. My trembling fingers trace the scar on his cheek, and then peaks of his upper lip. His fingers tighten around my throat. "Then you'll kill me," I whisper to him.

His jaw works and his nostrils flare with pain. He swallows and I watch his Adam's apple jump like it did when he demanded more pictures of his father - more fuel for his fire, more fury to fill that gaping void in his chest. "You'd die... right now? You would let me do this?"

My hands are on his arm, my fingers holding the instrument of my death... but I don't fight. I'll go softly.

_Maybe it's better_, I think.

But then he's gasping and whimpering, and he's letting go of my throat, and he's yanking the panties down my legs and he's pushing me open before they're even off and he's inside of me on a single desperate thrust without having to guide himself.

Because I am made to fit him.

Everything and everyone before him doesn't exist and there will be no after. All I will ever know is _now_ and _him_.

He bottoms out on every penetration - he finds my cervix, he's seeking my womb. He's relentless and he's opening me in way I've never known. I try shoving at his chest and his hips, but he won't stop, he won't slow. He can't.

Our foreheads are pressed together and we can't speak - we can only cry and mewl and moan. He pushes my leg back against my breast, over his shoulder, and his thrusting becomes almost unbearably deep. My hands are on his thighs and then his face, pulling him down to me. Nose to nose, we murmur between brutal kisses and we breathe each other's air.

He licks his fingers, his hips pumping endlessly, and he slips the hand between us. I hold my breath, my lungs on fire, as he rubs my clit. I'm light-headed and when I remember to breathe, I drag it in through my nose and my insides burn.

I'm starving. I starve for air, I starve for love, I starve for release.

I starve most of all for _knowing_.

His fingers are working me into a frenzy. I'm so sensitive I can't stand to lay still. I writhe and weep and now I beg - I y_ell_. For _him_, for _death_, for _an end_, for anything but _this_. My heels dig into his calfs and climb up the backs of his thighs. I squeeze his hips and tangle my tortured legs with his. A numbness is rushing up from my toes and I know it won't be long for me.

His other hand is in my hair, under my head, and he tugs to keep me with him, to keep me _there_. His hot breath won't let me forget that my face is wet from crying. He forces me to look into his eyes.

Cerulean blue.

_I am not my father_.

"I love you," I say and it's all once the stupidest and most honest thing I have ever said in my life.

He inhales deeply and licks his swollen lips again. His fingers rub harder, faster.

And I'm sailing over and I need so badly to close my eyes, but he won't let me. He wants inside. He wants everything. I scream for him. I give him everything and my world is black for a long time.

When I come back to him, I feel that he's gathered me under him completely. He uses my shoulders as leverage and he's kissing, nipping my throat and my ear and then my lips. His hips roll and I feel my body, my core, pull at him every time he leaves. My eyes flutter closed.

"_Volim te... volim te... Molim... Please."_ I hear every word he says. His thrusts grow weaker, more erratic, more shallow. His hands are full with my breasts - kneading and cupping. _"Let me come inside you... Please."_

I nod. I consent. I need this to prove my trust - to prove his trust.

I'm almost sure that he cries through his orgasm.

I watch his agony in the orange light and I think that we might drown in all of these tears.

We are the betrayed children.

But we aren't abandoned now.

"_Hvala ti, mala devojčica... Hvala..."_ He whispers.

He stays between my thighs, and I fall asleep under the wolf.


End file.
